


I'm Only Human

by Aranwion



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aranwion/pseuds/Aranwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After it all, Bucky saves Steve. As his memories - both of his life as James Barnes and his time as the Winter Soldier - start to return, he has to start the long, hard process of saving himself. That is, if he decides he even wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Only Human

He dragged the limp form of the man from the bridge – Steve, a deep, dark part of mind whispered – to the rocky shore of the Potomac, a servo whining in his shoulder. Leaving his target at the water line he paused, just until he was assured the man was breathing before turning away.

Each step along the rocky shore jarred his battered body, the sharp pain in his knee heralding a torn ligament. Glancing back to ensure that he was out of the stirring man’s sight, he took a deep breath and with a mechanical squeal of protest slid his dislocated human _(weak)_ shoulder into place. He breathed through the fire flaring out from the joint, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached, waiting for the grey haze to recede from the edges of his vision. He heard voices, faint but coming closer, calling for Captain Rogers, and that meant he was out of time. With one last look at the bruised, bloody blond he disappeared. He was good at that.

With so much confusion it wasn’t hard to slink unnoticed through the city. Knee twinging, he kept his gait even, trying to mitigate the swelling. In the waning afternoon light he moved from shadow to shadow, wearing a coat snatched off the back of a sidewalk café chair, grateful that the dark leather of his uniform hid the blood trickling from his wounds.

He walked, eyes down, letting his hair curtain his face, until he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t be caught in the first sweep. That _They_ would search for him was a given. As the dust and ash from the destruction caused by the Helicarriers brought on an early twilight he climbed a fire escape that hung rather precariously from the side of the brick apartment building. Pain and stiffness made it slow going, slower than he would like, and his neck prickled with being so exposed. Once on the roof he slid into the space between exhaust vents, slowly straightening his leg, a sharp intake of breath the only expression of pain he’d allow himself. Tucking his right arm close between his torso and the warmed metal of the vent housing he shifted, using his icy, metal hand to apply pressure to the ragged slash along the curve of his ribs and closed his eyes, settling in to wait.

Once full dark settled over the city most of the frantic activity slowed, and the streets, while not deserted, were significantly less busy than they had been. Grunting, he heaved himself to his feet and limped toward the fire escape. His knee was hot and tight within the constricting leather and his shoulder still burned dully.

Leaving his temporary sanctuary he eyed the street warily, then strode back the way he’d come, looking for – ah, there, the veterinary clinic. A large black backpack bounced gently against the small of his back, the slick nylon strap _shushing_ as it slid against nylon shell of his green jacket. Resettling the bag of stolen clothes, acquired through the open bedroom window of a very trusting college student, higher on his shoulder he stepped into the deeper shadow beneath the slight overhang. Crouching down made his head spin and he gasped, listing to the right to keep his weight on his good leg. He had the impression that he’d finished missions in worse shape, but this wasn’t a mission, not anymore, he was on his _own_ , no orders, no _order_ …he sucked in a breath, forehead against the cool glass of the door, fighting the rising wave of thick, choking panic welling up inside his chest.

Needing to get off the street, out of sight, he slipped his lockpicks out of his boot, inserted the slim instruments into the deadbolt and went to work. The inky darkness didn’t impede him, it was the daylight that hindered, too-bright and leaving the world washed out, like an over-exposed photograph. A side effect, they told him, handing him a pair of darkened goggles. He’d never thought to ask _A side effect of what?_

Inside, he locked the bolt behind him and limped heavily through the unlit reception area, past an exam room and into the back. It took him only a moment to find the surgical suite. He left main lights off, only flicking on one of the repositionable spotlights. Letting the backpack fall to the floor he started stripping out of his uniform, hampered a bit by the malfunctioning servo in his shoulder that continued to whine and hitch. He laid out several of his smaller knives, two extra clips for guns he no longer had, three stimulant tabs and a felt-tipped marker on the counter by the sink.

Stripped to the waist he rifled through the equipment, gathering what he needed. Sitting on the undersized operating table he started with the bullet in his shoulder, caught as the Helicarriers shot each other out of the sky. Using a pair of needle nose tweezers he pried the mangled metal from the wound, letting it fall to the floor. Eyeing the flushed, heated flesh around the sluggishly bleeding entry point he teased out the scraps of leather and cotton that had been forced deep into the muscle by the force of the bullet. Antibiotic cream was the same regardless of species and he applied a generous amount before taping a gauze pad tightly over the bullet hole.

The long, jagged slash on his side was crusted with dried blood, and deep enough that it needed stitches, despite his ability to heal. A few swipes with antiseptic cleared away the old blood, the sharp sting something he could focus on.

Letting himself float on the pain of stitches pulling through raw flesh he wondered about the man on the bridge. It was unnerving. He’d never had reason to wonder before, his world had been missions and orders and objectives; no questions, no doubts, no hesitations. Never any hesitations, no, not anymore, hesitation brought liquid fire pushed into his veins, burning _him_ away…he jerked, the pull of the stitches bringing him back to the moment. He blinked, trying to banish the unwanted images. A lingering echo of _cold_ made him shiver; cold was nothing new to him, he was always cold, but this was different, it was _cold_. His hand was shaking, and he stared, shocked, before tying off the last stitch, metal fingers steady with the needle where flesh and blood ones trembled on his thigh. He couldn’t remember seeing his hand shake before _(You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States)_ could he? Thinking about it made his head hurt.

Now there was the man – _Steve_ , that little voice murmured – a target who wasn’t a target, who called him ‘friend’, who’d given him a _name_. _Bucky_ , he thought to himself. _Is that who I am?_ Something stirred in the dark pit inside his head. The aching vortex of nothingness throbbed in his mind, worse than when they woke him from cryofreeze, worse than when they put him in the chair and made him blank. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on a precipice and when he fell he would either break apart, or fuse together, and he didn’t know which terrified him more.

Standing, he repositioned the light to illuminate more of the room. A stainless steel cabinet taller than him stood in the corner by the sink, the face of it polished to a mirror shine and he used it to check his back for injuries. There were some deep tissue bruises and one hip was chafed raw but nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own. He was about to turn away when he was caught by his own eyes. Even in the imprecise mirror he could see the heavy, bluish circles, the hollowed look of his cheeks.

He stared at the smeared, blurry image of himself, taking in a face that wasn’t his, because weapons had no face. He stared into his own eyes, inching closer to the fall that would make or break him.

“James Buchanan Barnes.” He said, the words edging past the raw ache in his throat to echo too loud in the still room. Something shifted inside him, glinting in the darkness and he could almost…it was there, swimming beneath the surface of his dark, dark eyes, just out of reach.

“Bucky,” he pled, demanded, accused. He gasped, toppling headfirst over the edge of the cliff as he grabbed that bright spark and _burned_.

_\- “Stevie, pal, don’t do this to me, please.” Hands, his, calloused, flesh-and-blood, resting on Steve’s lean, fevered face. Sitting on the thin mattress he listened to Steve’s breath rattle in his chest and watched his eyes move beneath pale lids, eyes that had stayed resolutely closed for more than 24 hours now. Dark lashes were fanned over porcelain cheeks; thin lips were dry and chapped. He carded a hand through Steve’s blond hair, praying to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in that Steve would just wake up, he had to wake up –_

 

_\- he thought Steve was beautiful like this, relaxed and happy. Bucky watched him out of the corner of his eye, loving the way Steve’s eyes lit up as he sketched. He leaned a hip against the counter and listened to the rasp of charcoal on thick paper, accompanied by Steve’s aimless humming. His blond hair, longer than he normally kept it, was falling over his face and every few minutes he’d brush it back with the heel of his hand. Even smudged with charcoal Steve’s face was handsome and Bucky ached to reach out, to be the one to tuck those errant strands behind his ear –_

 

_\- standing on the edge of camp he looked up at the stars, breath clouding in the chill air. He thought about walking away, just disappearing into the night. He wondered, however unfairly, in these still moments, if anyone would really miss him, how long it would take for the team (Steve) to replace him. There were plenty of good (better) snipers, after all. Steve didn’t need him anymore and Bucky wouldn’t admit (hadn’t, hadn’t ever) that, deep down, taking care of Steve had been his whole life, that he hated when Steve was ill but loved that he was able to care for him. That when he dared touch himself in their tiny shower the images that went through his mind were all of Steve – Steve wearing clothes that Bucky had mended, Steve, bright-eyed, drawing in the leather bound sketchbook Bucky had saved for, Steve eating meals that Bucky had prepared, Steve_ needing _him._

_He was floundering, unneeded, unnecessary, useless. He couldn’t provide for Steve anymore; just another thing the army had taken from him. He couldn’t protect him, that damned serum had made sure that Steve would never need protecting again. He didn’t even need Bucky to watch his back, he had a whole team to do that._

_“Hey, there you are. I wondered where you wandered off to.” Steve’s voice was soft and Bucky turned, dredging up a wan smile._

_“Hey,” he replied, staring back into the shadowed forest. He felt Steve’s presence next to him, big and solid, so much more than Bucky ever was, even at his best. After long moments Steve put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, huge and warm, familiar but new._

_“C’mon, let’s get back. We’re heading out early tomorrow.” His voice was kind, but there was something sad in it, something Bucky knew he put there. His smile slipped as he followed his best friend back to camp. He didn’t look back, he couldn’t or -_

 

_\- “Who are you?” he’d lost count of how many times they’d asked, how many times he’d answered. Barnes, James, Master Sergeant, 32557. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank – his own hoarse scream drowned out his internal monologue. The contents of the syringe burned through his veins. Fire, fire in his head, in his arm, heart beating too heavy, too fast, he couldn’t take this anymore, please God why won’t you just let me die? When the pain ebbed he’d been reduced to quiet whimpers, no longer able to scream. He swallowed, tasting blood._

_“Who are you?” the voice came then, implacable, indifferent. Name, rank, serial number. What did that mean? Did he have a name? Of course he did, everyone has a name. What was his name? **What was his name?**_

_The blow took him by surprise, but his vision had been fading in and out, hazy, since the last time they’d shoved the rubber block in his mouth and run electric current through his brain. Reeling, trying to supress the urge to vomit, he shook his head._

_“Who are you?” The voice demanded._

_He sobbed as he choked out “I don’t know.” -_

 

_\- blue eyes, wide and surprised, mouth hanging open in shock._

_“Bucky?” -_

 

The memories seared themselves into his mind’s eye, blazing through the roiling sea of blackness. His muscles spasmed in remembered pain and it seemed his legs had decided not to support him up anymore because when that terrifying grey fog rolled back he found himself crumpled on the floor, cheek pressed against the smooth steel of the cabinet.

He shook, trying to force the memories aside, to find that still place in the midst of the chaos, but they were insidious, forcing themselves to the fore of his mind. When the shaking shifted into full-body shivering in the cool air he dragged himself upright, most of his weight resting on his cybernetic arm. Careful to keep his eyes away from his reflection he kicked off his boots and pried off his filthy, clammy socks.

Determined not to compromise his position, to not get caught, to _not think about it_ he focused on survival, on patching himself up and finding somewhere to go to ground. He leaned against the table he started to peel off his pants, the damp leather clinging stubbornly to his chilly legs. He let the material fall to the floor in a sodden heap and examined his damaged knee. He hissed as he manipulated the tender joint, but determined that while painful, it wasn’t critical. It would heal in three or four days, more if he couldn’t find a place to lay low.

Snagging the strap of the stolen backpack he dumped the contents on the table. He dressed with an ingrained efficiency of movement, finding the jeans a little long and the tee a little tight across the shoulders, but they’d suit. He shrugged into a navy blue Georgetown hoodie, a little shocked at how soft it was. It felt…he frowned, groping through his limited vocabulary for a word to match the feeling. He knew every possible tactical term needed to give an accurate mission report, but the Winter Soldier had little cause to know the language of pleasures. Nice, he decided, tugging the right sleeve down over the heel of his hand. It felt nice. A strange warmth settled in his chest as the word, matched to the experience, filled up a little piece of emptiness.

He put his boots back on, lacing them with quick, precise motions. He slung the pack over his left shoulder and shoved his best knife and the stimulants into his pocket. He took nothing else of Hydra with him. He didn’t bother trying to hide his presence in the clinic, _They’d_ be searching for him, and so would what was left of SHIELD; best to give them something to find, something to examine, something that would take up time he could use to run.

The employee break room yielded a pair of wrapped sandwiches, three bottles of water, aspirin and a surprisingly well-stocked first aid kit. They all went into the backpack. Not bothering to lock the clinic behind him he stepped out into night air that still smelled of fire and ash. Pain was a living, pulsing thing inside him, he was still filthy, covered in dirt and blood and sweat, his hair was a snarled mess, but somehow he felt cleaner than he had in days.

***

The Soldier (because he couldn’t think of himself any other way, not yet, not when he was fighting the urge to let his feet take him to the nearest safehouse with every step) walked until he reached an aging neighbourhood that had been skipped over by the spreading gentrification of urban DC. It didn’t match his training images of a ‘bad’ neighbourhood but the number of homes sporting bars on the windows outnumbered the ones that didn’t. The kind of place that wouldn’t see frequent police activity but where the people went out of their way to mind their own business. Perfect.

Deep night was giving way to predawn grey when the Soldier saw it – a foreclosed home at the end of a cul-de-sac. The sign was weathered, grass long enough to look unkempt, which said it had been empty long enough to no longer be the subject of gossip and the intact windows behind the security bars said it hadn’t caught the attention of bored youth. It was the best bolt hole he was likely to find.

Limping again because his left knee had continued to swell he slipped into the backyard. Stepping around an abandoned patio set he opened the screen door slowly, wincing a little as the _squeak_ of unlubricated hinges cut through the still morning air, momentarily shocking the birds into silence. When the dawn song resumed he picked the simple deadbolt and stepped into a darkened kitchen. He slowly closed both doors and thumbed the bolt.

His right shoulder ached fiercely and his knee throbbed with every step but he made a circuit of the house, mind cataloguing potential exits, ambush points and blind spots by instinct. The familiar motions calmed the storm inside his head, but made him uneasy. He frowned. He didn’t like the contradiction, didn’t like being without direction, having to choose. The Winter Soldier didn’t make decisions, he followed orders. But there were no orders, no mission objectives. He could make his own orders.

Staggering, he fell heavily against the wall. Breathing had suddenly become a monumental task and no matter how he tried he couldn’t seem to suck in enough oxygen. His vision was greying out again as his muscles seized up. He didn’t give orders, didn’t take initiative, never, never ever _(“Who do you think you are, hmm? You are nothing, a tool!”_

_Blood pooled on the stone beneath his naked body, the scent thick and cloying. He’d swallowed enough to make his stomach turn._

_“You are a soldier, and soldiers follow orders. If you cannot do that, of what use are you?” He nodded, curled around his mangled, broken hand. His feet were a burned, bloody lumps, just as badly broken._

_“Set the bones, then put him in the tank.” He whimpered, but didn’t fight the hands that grabbed and pulled and snapped. The tank was a blessing.)_ ever.

He was panting, curled in on himself in the dusty hallway, vision blurred with tears. On hands and knees he crawled the few feet down the hall into a small, enclosed laundry room. He worked himself into the nook between the rusted dryer and the wall. Tucking himself into a ball he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the familiar voice in his head to shut up, to just _shut up_.

_If you come home, this will all be over,_ it whispered. _No more pain, no more indecision. We can take it all away, give you **purpose**._ He shook his head, dirty, tangled hair falling across his face, tears still seeping from behind his lids. He realized, belatedly, that the small, pained noises echoing off the concrete were coming from him. Taking a deep breath he forced his clenched hands to relax and reached for the still blankness that allowed him to wait, rifle in hand, for hours, days, for the perfect shot. His breathing evened out, pain ebbed until it was a distant thing, easily ignored.

_I knew him_ , he told the voice firmly. In the shifting landscape of his mind there was one solid truth he could hold on to. _I knew him, and that matters_. Wrapping himself in the words, the certainty that he’d seen that face, those eyes, those lips before, he slipped into an exhausted sleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I obviously had feels after seeing The Winter Soldier. Said feels ended up all over the page and here they are.
> 
> Maybe don't expect an update for a bit, I brilliantly signed myself up for a Pacific Rim Mini Bang on tumblr and now actually have to get my ass in gear and get it done.   
> Swing by and visit me at www.beckyloveslife.tumblr.com


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